


Leviathan's Cross

by goldenwatcher



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Branding, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:35:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23250076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenwatcher/pseuds/goldenwatcher
Summary: Crowley is caught fraternizing with the angel by the Great Dragon herself, Leviathan.  The Dark Council member intends to remind him where he belongs.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 23





	Leviathan's Cross

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).



> This work was inspired by Whiteley Foster's art work. You can find the original art post here: https://whiteleyfoster.tumblr.com/post/612585496466587648/if-my-people-hear-i-rescued-an-angel-ill-be-the

**_1793_ **

Crowley stumbled onto the road, ridiculously drunk. The shouts of enraged citizens cut through the air as blood and burnt flesh tickled his tongue. The wine was keeping the worst of it at bay, food and companionship leaving him feeling warm and content. He’d left Aziraphale after lunch; with the insanity that gripped the population, there was too great a chance that another demon might be about. Still, the pleasure of encountering the angel and getting to not only one-up him but tease him about it was lifting Crowley’s spirits.

That was, until someone clubbed him across the back of the head.

When he came to, the smell of blood had been replaced with sulfur and something he couldn’t immediately identify. Crowley cracked one eye open and groaned, closing it against the sight. The room was dark, a small cave with a fire pit into one wall. He wasn’t in the Home Office; this was Hell proper, which meant he was in serious trouble. Someone must have seen him with Aziraphale.

“Croooow-leeey,” a voice sang with feral glee. Crowley groaned again, this time in annoyance. “I saw your eyes open. Wake up, Crowley.”

“You’ll want to be awake for this,” someone added.

Fuck. Well, this wasn’t awesome, but it could be worse. “Dukes Hastur, Ligur,” Crowley said as he opened his eyes and straightened. His head was pounding, his eyes taking in the two demons in the intense firelight. Hastur looked as dopey and dangerous as ever, cruel hunger in his stare. Ligur watched Crowley intently with ocean-blue eyes that matched his chameleon.

Crowley was in the center of the room, bound on a chair with his hands behind his back. He spotted the handle of a poker sticking out of the fire and forced himself not to react. Hell suffered a regrettable lack of imagination at times, but the oldies were goodies for a reason: they fucking hurt.

“Hey guys,” he started again. “Kinda busy up Above, Reign of Terror and all that. Something up?”

“Crowley, Crowley,” Hastur purred. “You’re caught some attention, rescuing that angel.”

“What you wanna do that for anyways?” Ligur interrupted.

Crowley’s mind had been racing since he’d come to. It was a bit difficult, considering the pain in his head, but the poker in the sulfur fire was certainly inspiring. “Guys, really, that was for the best. I can explain it.”

Hastur sneered, but before he could say anything, a third voice spoke up. “Let him speak,” she commanded.

Crowley froze, terror seizing his body into place. His eyes flicked up to Hastur and Ligur almost frantically, needing to know he was wrong. Both dukes were shrinking back from Crowley, flinching slightly in their own fear. The rasp of cloth shifting across the floor sent a shudder up Crowley’s spine as she slowly circled him.

The gown she wore was haggard and torn at the edges, an exquisite black-on-black brocade that showed the twisting, writhing mass of her true form. The sheer size of the creature that embroidery hinted of was enough to drive even demons mad with terror. She was tall, her black hair loose and untidy, her presence reminiscent of the victim of a shipwreck. Scales in aquatic blues and greens framed her face and throat, disappearing into her hair and down her spine. Her skin was so pale it was nearly translucent, both sickly and beautiful in blue undertones. Unlike the rest of her soft appearance, her eyes were vibrant and strange, a poisonous green that glowed like an angler fish’s lure, slightly too large for her face. The smell Crowley hadn’t been able to identify was thick and cloying now, brine from the deepest abyss of the ocean. She paused in front of him, staring down as if she was confused by why she should give such a tiny, insignificant thing her attention.

Crowley dipped his head as far as he could, panic curling in the back of his throat. “Arch-Duke Leviathan.” She was a Dark Council member, the Arch-Duke of the Deadly Sin of Envy, and a favorite of Satan himself. Why her? Why had Hastur and Ligur taken this to her and not Beelzebub?

“Demon Crowley,” she acknowledged. She cocked her head and reached out, running cold fingers through his hair, tossling the carefully coiffed locks. “You were explaining your actions.”

Lying to Hastur and Ligur was one thing, but to lie to the Great Dragon herself? “I am surprised, my Lady,” he started tentatively. “I did not think an insignificant thing such as I would catch your attention.”

The intensity of her glowing eyes made him want to whimper. “Do I explain myself to you, demon?”

“No, my Lady,” he immediately replied. He didn’t wait for her to demand again. “The Revolution: humans are destroying their own churches and organized religions. Many of their priests are being imprisoned and executed in addition to the aristocracy. It was my thought that the angel was there to disrupt that.”

“Beheading the creatures tends to shut them up,” Leviathan observed.

“Or turns them into martyrs. Letting him on a platform before the people gives him a chance to orate or even pass on divine messages.”

Crowley looked up at Leviathan, his body still. Snakes didn’t tremble, and he felt that being a tiny serpent before the Great Dragon might earn him some points.

She watched him, face absolutely expressionless as she scratched his scalp with her claws, not quite hard enough to hurt. Finally, she pulled away. “The mortals are so hungry,” Leviathan hissed, circling him slowly. “They covet food and wealth and life and commit atrocities in the name of what they hunger for: a false sense of equality.” She sighed in pleasure. “Hell will glut on their souls, in the end. So much Wrath. So much Envy. I chose to watch, to keep my interests in line.” Leviathan’s hands landed on his shoulders. “Tell me the angel’s name.”

Crowley swallowed hard, trying to decide if it would hurt Aziraphale to tell her. He didn’t have much of a choice. “Principality Aziraphale.”

Leviathan made a thoughtful rumble in the back of her throat. “I know this name. Eden’s Eastern gate guardian, yes? Your opposition on Earth.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

She hummed in acknowledgement. A moment later, Crowley jumped as he felt her searing breath on his throat. “And why then, Demon Crowley, did you dine with the opposition, this Principality Aziraphale?”

Leviathan’s eyes burned into the serpent sigil on his face, making him want to twist himself into knots. “He was so grateful,” he panted, voice breathless in terror. “I had thought I might learn some secrets, but all he wanted was food.”

Leviathan pressed her lips against the mark, tongue flicking to taste it. Crowley was an absolutely enormous serpent, able to wrap himself around the exterior of the building Aziraphale purchased for his bookshop, but he was a snack to Leviathan. She could eat him in one bite, consume his being, and destroy Aziraphale. The power of the Dark Council was beyond anything Crowley was capable of.

“I don’t believe you,” she whispered. Crowley couldn’t help but whimper. “But I will accept your answer.” Then she rose.

Crowley nearly froze, staring blankly ahead in shock. Leviathan, Arch-Duke of Envy, was taking his word? Then her hands slid over his left shoulder. Claws pierced the cloth and she ripped his shirt open.

“Hastur,” she commanded coldly.

The duke nearly jumped at her command then gleefully grabbed the poker. He turned around, showing Crowley the symbol on the brand: Levianthan’s Cross, a twisting infinity symbol with a double cross rising out from it.

“Consider it a reminder, little serpent, of where you belong when you choose to fraternize with the opposition,” Leviathan said impassively.

Crowley gulped when the brand was seared into his skin, coasting on the pain. When the metal was pulled away, the Dragon’s hand replaced it, washing it with cold brine water. Crowley shrieked in agony, reflexively lashing out far faster than either Hastur or Ligur could have escaped. Leviathan, however, was behind him, stronger than him, and could more than keep up with his blinding speed.

After the burn was quenched, she cut his bindings with her claws. “Oh, and Satan says to keep up the good work, Darling.” Then the Great Dragon slithered from the room, Hastur and Ligur following like sycophants.

Crowley managed to keep his head up and eyes forward until he made it home. Once inside, however, he wilted onto the bed like a dying flower. He looked at the brand, his stomach twisting, but the tender wound was completely healed. The shiny skin has a slight translucent sheen of blue and made him feel like he was choking on saltwater. Crowley grabbed a blanket and pulled it over his head.

**_1862_ **

Crowley had zero interest in returning to Paris after the branding, particularly with Leviathan in the area, and had stayed abed. Once he’d woken, he’d discovered a little over sixty years had passed. The scar was no longer tender and the smell not so strong, though there were still whiffs of saltwater and the shimmer of blue like scales. It made his throat tight and stomach turn. After a great deal of thought, he knew what he needed and who he had to ask.

If he’d thought that the Eden situation had gone down like a lead balloon, he’d obviously seen nothing yet.

“I’m not bringing you a suicide pill, Crowley,” Aziraphale had nearly hissed.

Crowley would have rolled his eyes at the histrionics if he wasn’t so blessed frustrated. “That’s not what I want it for,” he’d tried to assure. “Just…” he could feel Leviathan’s tongue on the snake sigil, “assurance.”

Aziraphale was not having it. “I’m not an idiot, Crowley. Do you know what trouble I’d get into if they knew I’d been fraternizing?”

Crowley didn’t hear the rest of the complaint. His mind seized on the word, his body growing cold as the Dragon rumbled in his memories. “Fraternizing?” he hissed.

Aziraphale continued to fuss, but terror and rage clawed at Crowley, stilling his pulse, his thoughts. He could smell brine and sulfur and burning flesh. Did the angel realize he was panicking? That’d he’d already been caught and suffered? Would Aziraphale even care? He’d once thought so, but he wasn’t really sure just then.

“I have lots of other people to fraternize with, angel.” Leviathan for one. He’d be consumed, but would that be so bad?

Then Aziraphale was gone. Crowley could finally allow himself to gasp and press a hand over the freezing makr on his shoulder.

Fraternizing. Perhaps he should try again next century. This one sucked.

**_Modern Day - Post Armageddon_ **

The bookshop was silent, closed in the lazy light of a Tuesday morning. Aziraphale was still, seated happily on one of the sofas, reading a new acquisition. He had been there for hours, unmoving except to turn the page. A fire crackled warmly in the hearth, leaving the space deliciously warm. Crowley had given in to the drowsy heat hours ago and had curled up on the sofa beside the angel. It wasn’t long until Aziraphale’s body heat became too tempting and he’d shifted his form into a serpent that filled the sofa, looping coils around Aziraphale. The angel had merely shifted the book to prop it against Crowley, wriggling a little to settle, then continued to devour his selection.

Finally, the book was complete. Aziraphale closed it with a happy sigh and set it aside before turning his attention to the enormous snake.

“Good morning, my dear,” he murmured fondly, running delicate fingers over Crowley’s scales. “Fancy some coffee?”

Crowley burrowed his face into Aziraphale’s neck, grumbling softly. It made him chuckle. “Oh, that’s enough of that I think. It’s going to be a marvelous day, I just know it. How about we…” Aziraphale trailed off, his fingers stilling. “Crowley, are these scales blue?”

Crowley jerked back and shifted form so fast he rolled off of Aziraphale, across the coffee table, and tumbled to the floor in a gangly tangle of limbs. “Nope!” he called from across the floor, trying to remember how limbs worked. “No blue. Why would I have blue?”

“I saw them even better when you rolled over,” Aziraphale said rather testily. His hands clutched at each other, showing his nerves. “It looked like Leviathan’s Cross.”

Crowley flinched. It would figure Aziraphale would know his occult symbolism. “You know, now that you mention it, coffee does sound like just the ticket.”

“You didn’t have that mark in Rome,” Aziraphale stubbornly continued, “or Eden when I last saw you in snake form.”

The demon stilled, his heart thundering. “Angel…”

“A Leviathan’s Cross is nothing to--”

“Stop!” Crowley snapped, hissing slightly. “Stop… stop saying her name.”

Aziraphale straightened in surprise, blinking at him. “Crowley--”

“I told you, my people don’t send rude notes.”

The silence weighed on the room. “When?” Aziraphale asked softly.

Crowley couldn’t look at him. “1793.”

“May I see it?”

The serpent blinked, looking at him in surprise. “What for?”

“Well, it’s my fault, isn’t it? If I hadn’t wanted crepes--”

“It’s not you, it’s Hell. I should have known she was there.”

“Arch-Duchess of Envy--”

“Duke,” Crowley immediately corrected. “No one calls her Arch-Duchess; no one that wants to survive.”

“Heaven does.”

“No wonder she hates them.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale soothed. He moved his novel off the sofa and patted the cushions, entreating him. “Please?”

Crowley grumbled under his breath as he climbed to his feet and circled the coffee table. He sat on the sofa and shrugged off the jacket and scarf. Then he popped the buttons of his waistcoat before shrugging his shirt down off his left shoulder. The mark was just under his collarbone, the scar pale and smooth. It had the faint blue shimmer and still the occasional whiff of brine.

Azriaphale’s lips thinned as he studied it. “All for a short nibble,” he berated himself.

“Because I saved an angel,” Crowley corrected. “The lunch was… well, a bit hard to explain.”

“An angel who wouldn’t have been in danger if he’d been less foolish.” He reached forward, letting his fingers skim the scar. “I wish I could do more to heal it.”

“Don’t you dare,” Crowley demanded fiercely. “Leviathan would take it as a challenge.”

“But you don’t work for her; you never did,” Aziraphale protested.

“Doesn’t matter. We can’t challenge the Dark Council, Aziraphale. Any one of them could grind us under their heels.”

“What of Beelzebub?”

“They are a politician, and tasked with keeping Hell in line. The holy water was a display and they accepted that. But if we tried to personally fight them…” Crowley shook his head. “We would be lucky if they killed us.”

Aziraphale frowned and let his fingers trail again over the mark. “I’m so sorry, my dear,” he murmured, voice soft and full of genuine pain.

Crowley’s hand caught his, pulling it away before he shrugged the shirt back into place. “I’m not. The crepes were delicious.”

Aziraphale scoffed, rolling his eyes, but a smile tugged at his lips. “The company wasn’t half bad either,” he added.

“You mean half good,” the demon teased.

The smile turned fond as Aziraphale looked at Crowley. “Whatever you say, my dear.”


End file.
